


No Personal Calls During Business Hours

by Littlebiscuits



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Cell Phones, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Masturbation, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 01:10:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16231073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlebiscuits/pseuds/Littlebiscuits
Summary: At some point Faith must have rifled through his pockets, because a few days after he wakes up in a stream with Boomer licking his face, he starts receiving messages from her. Not imaginary, hallucination messages, normal messages, through his phone.





	No Personal Calls During Business Hours

It's all Faith's fault. Her and her stupid Fairyland flowers that leave Rook wandering through imaginary wheat fields, and boating on imaginary rivers. At some point she must have rifled through his pockets, because a few days after he wakes up in a stream with Boomer licking his face, he starts receiving messages from her.

Not imaginary, hallucination messages, normal messages, through his phone.

At first it's just pictures of Bliss flowers, the occasional reminder that Eden's Gate is really a fabulous paradise and he shouldn't get so hung up on all the corpses, brainwashing and people who've lost their mind to the Bliss. That's not so bad, deeply annoying, but something Rook can live with. But then he gets a few personally selected bible quotes from a different number, and later a picture of a wolf eating what looks like a man's leg. So he's fairly sure that Faith has been sharing with her whole family.

Rook puts up with the messages, he puts up with the sermons from Joseph, the long, boring descriptions of sin from John, and the pictures of empty, blood-spattered cages from Jacob, and he doesn't change his number. Because the Resistance has it, and he doesn't want to go round the whole county giving everyone a new one. So he goes about his business, blowing up cult property, rescuing civilians and liberating outposts with the added bonus of the crazy family of violent misfits having his personal number. 

When Rook hijacks a particularly important fuel convoy, and takes it back to Fall's End, instead of where it was supposed to go to, he's fully expecting the next message he gets to be a scolding. Something about his inability to understand what Joseph is trying to build, what he's trying to show him. Something, something, wrath. And Rook knows he'd made a promise that he wouldn't reply to any of their bullshit, but if that's what it is, then he's going to make his thoughts known.

But when he slides his messages open, it's not a rant from Joseph. 

It's a photo. 

It's an explicit photo of a dick to be exact, taken close, half in light and half shade, and all Rook's thoughts come to a messy, confused stop.

It's not from a number he recognises, but Rook's going to take a wild guess who it belongs to, judging by the curving edges of black ink around it, the barely in the picture red and white lines of scar tissue. The general air of smugness that Rook hadn't even known a dick could possess. And suddenly Rook is annoyed, because it's nice, it's a really nice dick. All weight and texture, smooth in a way that would be easy to touch, to circle with a hand and tilt down, slide his mouth over. And he's thinking about it, he's thinking about putting his hands on John's narrow hips and pinning them down -

Rook makes an angry noise and types a message, before he changes his mind.

_'John, if I see your dick one more time I'm going to set your big, fucking sign on fire.'_

He doesn't get a reply.

Rook angrily stuffs his phone back in his pocket, and goes back to trying to wrangle the county into some sort of order. He's half-convinced at this point that he's going to die trying, but there don't seem to be a lot of other options. No one else seems to be willing to do anything dramatic enough to make the cult take notice. Or maybe he's just the only one crazy enough to try to take on all of the Seeds personally.

The picture's still on his phone a week later, and he honestly doesn't give a shit what that says about him. 

A week after that, Rook's crashed out in an abandoned house in the woods, in Faith's territory, pack thrown carelessly off the end of the bed. He's tired, and his bones hurt, and it's been a long, fucking day. But his body's not ready to calm down and relax yet, not ready to believe that the world is safe enough to sleep in. He's restless, skin bruised and too tight, vaguely aroused, in a way that feels like his body's confused suggestion about what he should do to fix it all.

Rook's left wondering if he could convince John to send him a new picture, if he could convince John to stop whatever he's doing, shut himself in a room and take a picture just for Rook. Just because Rook asked for it. Which is a thought he can't quite manage to shake out of his head, once he's had it.

It would be a really stupid thing to do. But he still ends up with his phone in his hand, finding John's last raving text about atonement.

_'Send me another picture.'_

Rook half regrets it the moment he sends it. But it's not like anyone is going to know. 

It's been five minutes, and he's starting to think John is going to deny him. Or worse, that Rook's going to get a long string of text messages about giving in to lust, and the merits of self-restraint. Like John wasn't the one who started this, like Rook couldn't forward the picture to Joseph with a curt complaint, and drop John Seed in a whole world of shit.

But then his phone brightens, and Rook slides it open.

The second picture is more honest than the first, less artistic, Rook can see the edge of John's pushed down jeans, he can see the floating line of his shirt. He looks like he's half reclined on a chair, somewhere in the ranch. As if Rook had disturbed him while working, and he's just shoved the absolute bare minimum out of the way. It's a really good look for him. John's cock isn't completely soft, and Rook has to wonder if that's due to his impromptu request, if John's an exhibitionist son of a bitch, or if the man just walks around ready to fuck at a moment's notice. Both of them seem equally likely.

Christ. Rook can already feel this whole idea sliding into something messy, but he can't for the life of him work up the self-control to stop it.

_'Put your hand on it.'_

He likes the way that looks like a demand, set underneath John's picture.

The next picture John sends confirms, if there was any doubt left, that it's actually him, tattooed fingers curling around his dick, that's now a solid line in his hand. His shirt is flung open, thighs bare enough that Rook knows he's no longer wearing any pants. He's also no longer sprawled in a chair, he looks like he's lying down.

Rook gives in, caves to the insistent, impatient clench in his gut, and tugs button and zipper open, shoves his jeans down.

"I'm out of my fucking mind," he tells himself. Though it's a bit late for that, because he's already lazily jerking off to John Seed's dick. To John Seed fisting his own dick like that's the kind of relationship they have.

_'This is a little unfair, Deputy.'_

_'Are you going to share?'_

Rook should have expected that, because of course John wants Rook to participate. But John has a point and Rook isn't going to pretend he isn't at least a little tempted to make this whole thing messy and mutual

He flicks across to the camera, drags his shirt out of the way, eases the weight of himself into his fist without even thinking about it, and snaps a picture. It's not like anyone will know. The number of people in this county who've seen his dick, he can count on one hand. 

Rook's phone doesn't take long at all to light up again.

_'Were you thinking about me?'_

Rook really hates John's ability to be smug via any medium. He can picture the lazy sprawl of him, the long smile, as if he has any high ground to judge Rook for his self-control. But since Rook's the one who demanded John send him a picture, he supposes the least he can offer is some honesty.

_'Yes.'_

He thinks about it for a minute, about how much he wants to admit. But this is a lot easier when John's smug face isn't spouting crazy at him. When he's sprawled out somewhere in the ranch with his hand on himself, waiting for Rook to give him something in the way of encouragement, or appreciation, handsome fucker is probably used to it.

_'I knew you'd give me something to look at.'_ Rook adds.

The pause after he sends that isn't long at all. As if Rook's admission has killed John's constant desire to needle at him and woken something else, something needier.

When John's next message comes in, Rook reads it twice.

_'Tell me what you want me to do.'_

Rook exhales all the air out of his chest, grips himself, one slowly tightening curve of fingers, because that has promise, that has potential. Of all the words he might have attached to his mental image of John, 'obedient' hadn't been one of them, and the thought of it makes something stretch inside him, hard enough to touch every nerve he has. The temptation to make John give him whatever he wants. To make him do whatever he wants.

Rook's thumb skates over the keys. 

_'Put your fingers in your mouth.'_

John doesn't just do it, he sends Rook a picture, sends him two pictures. The red of his mouth wide open, spread of tattooed fingers pressed flat against his tongue, and then in the second, pushed all the way in, lips clamped tight around them.

"Fuck." Why is there no lotion in here? Rook spits in his hand, grips himself and swears through his teeth, and yes, he's jerking off to that. He defies anyone not to jerk off to that.

_'Fucking perfect.'_ Rook types out messily, because he has to give the man something for that.

_'Show me.'_ John demands of him again.

Rook swears and gives him what he asks for, where he's red and wet and heavy now, cock glistening at the head. It's hard to hold his phone, and jerk off, and type messages all at the same time, but Rook has been given more difficult missions, with a higher price for failure. There's a pause long enough for his phone to go dark, hiding the whole incriminating mess of it, for as long as it takes Rook to tap it open again.

The next picture opens while he's watching, and John's jumped ahead, impatient, or just too greedy to wait for Rook to ask for anything else, because he has one leg dragged all the way up, cock a flushed weight against his stomach. He has two slick fingers pushed into himself, to the second knuckle.

"Jesus fucking Christ." Rook's phone slips off his thigh, bright screen disappearing into the sheets. He gropes for it, hissing a curse and squeezing the base of his cock, because he wants to see this. All the messy adrenaline in his system, all the angry, frustrated energy he's been carrying around is suddenly focused on that one picture, on the obscene promise of it. On how much his whole body wants to react to it.

Rook thinks about fucking him, can't think about anything else, thinks about dragging those long legs open, pinning them open - pulling John's fingers out and burying his dick all the way inside him. He wants it like he's wanted nothing else since this whole mess kicked off and caught fire. And because Rook's dick is absolutely running the show now, he types some messy version of all of that out and sends it to him.

He doesn't even regret it.

John's reply is a mess, broken into pieces.

_'Yes.'_

_'Please.'_

_'Yes.'_

_'Want you to fuck me.'_

Two pictures come half a minute later, straight after one another and, Jesus, if Rook scrolls between them it almost looks like - it looks exactly like that, and John absolutely knew it. And, fuck, Rook wants to be the one doing that, or wants to be close enough to watch it happen, to hear the noises John makes when his fingers go all the way in. Rook's no longer capable of any form of coherency, hand tight on himself, feet shifting to lock and push against the end of the bed, just so he has something to brace against, something to bear down on. 

_'I want to see you.'_ Rook demands, has to delete the mess he makes of it twice, and type it again, he doesn't even know what he's asking for. He just wants to see, he wants to see _everything_.

But John seems to take it as permission.

Rook's too far gone to do anything but push into his own slick fist and white-knuckle his phone, waiting for that message icon to show up, for the pictures to open, over and over. It doesn't stop, like John wants to show him all of it. Every obscene inch of him, stretched open and then stuffed full, leaking against his own stomach, tight in his own fist.

God. Rook has never wanted anyone so badly in his whole fucking life. He's so close he can't hold onto anything, can't concentrate, can't wait any longer, and he has to grind himself to a stop to type a message and send it.

_'Come for me, John.'_ Rook tells him, because he wants to see it, wants to see John ruined by this, by him. He wants to be the one to make it happen. God, he wants to be inside him while it happens.

The next message he opens with a shaking, sweaty hand. And it's exactly what he hoped it would be.

John Seed is a wreck, come in messy lines up his stomach, over the back of his hand, spotted up his tattooed chest and still drooling out of the end of his dick - and Rook makes a noise that's drawn all the way up out of him, strokes once, twice, and then comes himself, doesn't care where it goes, groans out all the breath inside him and lets it all go, spills it all out.

Narrowly misses making a mess of his goddamn phone.

Christ.

Rook's blinking at the ceiling, God knows how many minutes later, phone lit up in his slack hand. He thinks he may have cracked the plastic, and it's his own damn fault. One of his legs has slipped off the side of the bed, and his body feels warm and satisfied, pleasantly aching. 

It's a good few minutes before he opens his messages again. There's a neat row of texts under the last picture, which still makes something interested and hungry clench in his gut.

_'Is that what you wanted, Deputy?'_

_'It's not a sin if you don't touch me.'_

_'Even if I want you to.'_

Rook's already way past deleting John's number, and pretending none of it happened, not when he feels uncoiled and warm inside at the promise of this, of more of this. Strangely attached to this crazy man, who's all dangerous smiles, and long legs and blue eyes. Who'll send him obscene pictures and touch himself however Rook asks, and probably peel his skin off if he ever catches him again. 

The world's mostly on fire, and no one's going to blame him. Rook hits reply, types two messages.

_'You make a convincing argument.'_

_'Leave your phone on.'_


End file.
